[b]Dolce![/b]

It is not often in the Age of the Shogunate that you see anything that resembles a hospital.

The cleanliness is... Normal air has a bit of a metallic tinge, so omnipresent that you just don't think about it. That's actually the work of Exomites - bioengineered dust mites seeded on every planet in the galaxy. These mites work tirelessly to collect the infinitesimally small trace fragments of exotic hypermaterials like Quadranix required for modern engineering. Some of these materials are so rare that an entire planet infected with Exomites might only produce a hundred kilograms a year. But here they're gone. The air is clean. A perfect, sterile, flavourless oxygen-nitrogen mix, strained of every contamination. 

The layout of the building is slipshod and haphazard, having been expanded at random, following the changing requirements of functionality without self reflection. You walk through a ward of drone tubes observed by various apprentice biomancers. You walk past a break room with a single chair facing a wall covered in posters of menacing looking Ceronians, marked with the words WE CAN BEAT THEM BY FOLLOWING POLICY other such inspirational messages. You walk through an open air cubicle farm where over a thousand apprentice biomancers work frantically with stylus and ink, illustrating muscle joints and connections and graphing out genetic sequences longhand, not looking up when the ceiling rattles and lights flicker as artillery shells impact on the bunker's roof. You walk past treatment wards, blue curtains and mechanical beds, where Summerkind sleep, leaf through magazines, or engage in high speed parallel conversations. Carts carrying food, laundry or failed drones force you to move aside constantly. 

Every so often the P.A. crackles and a voice rings out through the facility. Sometimes it's functional: "Phalange test for Drone Batch 402," or "Incoming atomic. Brace for impact". Sometimes it's motivational: "Minimize idle chatter. Remember: Mouths are a privilige and not a right!" or "Remember: Containment breaches are to be expected and are not an excuse for missing deadlines". Sometimes they're unhinged. "The sign of a healthy workplace is being able to offer a stranger a high five - and get one! The sign of an unhealthy workplace is the deployment of Killer-T Drones!" or "Beauty is not an afterthought. It's critical to future funding! If you notice ugliness anywhere report it to the Eradication Team immediately."

Contribution leads you through, numbed and cold eyed. And then you arrive at the Dais - a prefab room that's physically been tilted on its side to add more verticality. At its bottom, crammed into the narrow space along the 'wall', are hundreds of Summerkind military strategists pushing past each other, laying out maps, discussing possibilities. A ladder leads up to a hastily built catwalk halfway up the room, where Biomancer-General Liquid Bronze sits in his command throne surrounded by his aides and assistants, issuing directives and imparting wisdom in between puffs of his cigar.

"See, the problem with Doctor Ceron's designs," he was telling his assistant, while flexing his bicep and pointing. "Is that she didn't understand the power of wolf social structures! Yes all of the Ceronians are sexy, powerful wolfgirls, with the rare few wolfboys mostly made as concessions to investors and they're not even in charge. And the way she'd have you hear it is that's the point! But that's wrong! In the wolf pack there's only room for one alpha, and all the others are betas and omegas - and that's what makes them such effective hunters. The betas work hard so they can usurp the alpha and get access to the omegas, that's motivation right there. You want my advice? You've got to biologically neg like 95% of your creations. Oh! - hold my cigar, we've got guests."

Liquid Bronze kicked his chair. It rotated on little scuttling feet and waddled across to face Dolce, Contribution and 20022. He gave a snap military salute, and Contribution returned it with tears in his eyes - he was meeting his hero, his creator, and at last something in his life made sense. "Good show, soldier," said Liquid Bronze. "Your sacrifices won't be forgotten."
"Yes, sir," said Contribution. "Thank you sir."
Liquid Bronze held the salute for another long moment. His assistant continued to hold the cigar as it burned away. Then Liquid Bronze broke it and turned back to face a massive map on the wall. It was being constantly updated by winged Summerkind who erased painted unit markers and replaced them in response to new reports. "Make it snappy, sheeple. This is probably the hardest battle I've ever fought and my opponent - well, he's a genius. No other word for it. Probably the best commander in the galaxy. It's going to take all of my cunning to turn this around. Adjunct! Order another frontal assault!"